Let Darkness Come (18 page)

F
rom the way Shirley Walker keeps jiggling her leg, Briley deduces that the housekeeper is nervous.

“Thank you for coming in,” she says, stepping out from behind her desk. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some water?”

“No, thank you.” Mrs. Walker smoothes out a wrinkle in her dark jeans. “If we could get on with this, I'd appreciate it. I still have two houses to clean this afternoon.”

“Of course. I appreciate your time.” Briley pulls over a guest chair and sits directly across from the white-haired woman. She smiles, hoping to put Mrs. Walker at ease. “I'm sure you know I'm not allowed to tell you what to say if you're called to testify. In any case, I wouldn't want you to say anything that isn't the truth.”

The woman bobs her head in a quick nod. “I've seen
Law & Order
.”

“Good. If the prosecutor calls you as a witness—and I'm sure he will—he'll begin by asking your name and where you live. Then he'll want to know how long you worked for the Tomassis. He'll probably ask you to describe your relationship with them.”

The woman nods again but remains silent.

Briley folds her hands. “Can you answer that question now?”

“Which question?”

“How would you describe your relationship with Jeffrey and Erin Tomassi?”

The woman rubs her jeans again. “Mr. Tomassi was
always nice to me. He paid on time, he didn't leave a big mess, and he didn't speak sharp to me.”

“And your relationship with Mrs. Tomassi?”

The beginnings of a smile lift the corners of Mrs. Walker's mouth. “We were friends. Erin was sweet, and she never took my help for granted. Some mornings, if she didn't have to rush off with him, she'd stay and help me clean. She didn't think nothing of getting up on a chair to take down draperies or running a comforter to the dry cleaner. She wasn't afraid of hard work.”

Briley jots a note on her legal pad. “Were you around the Tomassis enough to get a feeling for the state of their marriage?”

“You mean…were they happy?”

“Yes. Did you see evidence of happiness?”

Mrs. Walker's frown deepens. “Nobody smiled much in that house, at least not when he was around. He was polite, but not what you'd call warm, and sometimes he spoke real sharp to her. She was always polite to him, but a few times I walked in and caught her crying at her desk. No, I couldn't say I saw much happiness in that house.”

“Did you ever hear Erin threaten her husband? Did she ever say anything to you about leaving him or wishing she were free of him?”

“No, never. Nothing like that.”

“Very good,” Briley says. “Try to keep your statements centered on the facts. Don't elaborate. And relax—you're going to do fine.”

The woman's face softens in an expression of relief. “I wouldn't want to say anything to hurt Erin. She doesn't deserve any more pain.”

Briley stands. “I haven't decided if I'll call you to testify, but if you're needed, someone from the court will call to let you know when you'll need to appear at the courthouse. You'll have to arrive early and go through the metal detectors. Sometimes it's good to bring a crossword puzzle or
something to read, because trials usually involve a lot of waiting around.”

“That reminds me.” The woman pulls several envelopes from her purse. “I've been gathering the mail for Mrs. Tomassi. Will you be seein' her anytime soon?”

“Probably later today.” Briley takes the mail and skims the return addresses—mostly bills and credit card offers. With no one living in the house, she should probably send these to Antonio Tomassi or some other family member.

“And there's this.” Mrs. Walker hands Briley a slip of paper with a name and number written on it. “This doctor has called twice. He says he needs to speak to Mrs. T about something.”

Briley frowns at the unfamiliar name. “This is a physician? Was Erin seeing him about something?”

“I don't know. All I know is, he's left two messages on her machine.”

“I'll pass the word along. Thank you, Mrs. Walker, for your help.”

After the housekeeper leaves, Briley pulls out her list of witnesses and places a check next to the woman's name. She may not have to call Mrs. Walker, but she needs to be ready in case Bystrowski decides to put her on the stand. She also needs to prepare Dr. Lu, and she may have to subpoena Douglas Haddock….

The judge has allowed only seven weeks to prepare for trial. Briley would ask for an extension—and would probably get one—but every day she waits is another day Erin spends in jail. The memory of the bruise on her client's jawbone spurs her to look for Dr. Lu's phone number.

Postponement is not a viable option.

E
rin shuffles into the interview room and waits like a hobbled animal as the guard unlocks her handcuffs. The room is chilly, unlike the communal area where most of the inmates lounge around the television and moan about their men and their incompetent lawyers. That space stinks of sweat and fury, but this place is as cold as a tomb.

She chafes her wrists and sinks into a plastic chair, then lets her head drop to the table. Her eyelids fall, and in the silence she can almost imagine herself back in her kitchen, her cheek against the cool granite countertop.

Hard to believe she's still here. Harder to believe that by this time next week, her fate should be settled. Her trial begins Monday, so Briley is coming to the jail today, eager for one last chance to prepare her client…who doesn't dare hope for acquittal.

She steels her nerves when the door opens and screeches in protest. She hears her lawyer murmur to the guard, Briley's quick steps on the concrete floor. Then something slaps the table.

Erin opens her eyes and lifts her head. “What's this? You're bringing me junk mail?”

“It's about the only thing not on the contraband list,” Briley answers, but if she meant to joke, the words fall flat. Erin shuffles through the envelopes—three credit card offers, a notice from the Republican party, a real estate brochure about homes for sale in Chicago's affluent Oak Park area, and a couple of utility bills.

Erin slides the envelopes back across the table. “You can toss it all, as far as I'm concerned.”

Briley picks the bills out of the pile. “Do you think your father-in-law would take care of these? I'm sure he'll want to maintain the property.”

“Because I'm not going home?” Erin attempts a careless grin, but her mouth only twitches with uncertainty.

“Of course you are…eventually.” The lawyer gives her an artificial smile and opens her notebook. “I've prepped our witnesses, I've talked to our team, I've fashioned our case theory, and put the prosecution on notice. Once I run all this by you, we'll be all set.”

“Okay.”

Briley draws a deep breath and stands. “I'm recommending that we plead not guilty by reason of involuntary intoxication. Illinois law requires that you be examined by at least one psychologist named by the prosecuting attorney, but we've already covered that, so we're good to go.”

Erin stares, her protest wedging in her throat.

“I know what you're thinking,” Briley adds as she begins to pace, “and I know you weren't drunk. But you took two Ambien, so you were intoxicated by the drug. The law says that involuntary intoxication is a defense if it causes the same symptoms required by the insanity defense.”

Erin listens with rising bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“We have gathered good information on Ambien and the side effect of parasomnia—sleepwalking. You cannot be held responsible for something you did while you were asleep because you would be unable to form mens rea, or intent.”

Erin stares at her lawyer. “That won't work.”

“It's time for you to start being reasonable. We've talked this through.”

“Apparently you weren't listening. I don't want any defense that implies I killed my husband.”

“But the state has irrefutable evidence.
Your
fingerprints, not Jeff's, are on the syringe.”

“So what? I'm sure there were several syringes in the sharps bin. His fingerprints had to be on those.”

“The police report says the syringe in evidence was found at the top of the trash. The fact that it was—proof that you didn't try to hide it—is further affirmation of parasomnia. Only someone who wasn't concerned about deception would have dropped it there.”

Erin lowers her head to her hand. “I know you don't believe in Lisa Marie—”

“Erin—”

“But I didn't kill Jeffrey. Why can't we go to court, tell the truth, and get justice?”

The lawyer turns away, frustration evident in every line of her body. She's probably been hoping Erin would never mention Lisa Marie again, but how can she hide the truth?

“You think it's that simple?” A bitter edge lines Briley's voice. “I used to think that practicing law would be straightforward. That cases would be black and white. That every time I stood with a client, he would be either innocent or guilty, and the jury would always recognize the truth.”

The lawyer's words tremble in the stillness, as if they were rising from some raw and secret place.

“But you know what?” Briley releases a bitter laugh. “In no time I learned that law isn't about justice. Too often it's about clearing the judge's crowded calendar and pretending that unstable clients are responsible citizens. It's about convincing a guilty woman to settle for ten years in prison instead of a lifetime sentence without possibility of parole.”

“Who are you talking about?” Erin's teeth chatter. “Don't you believe me?”

“Who is Lisa Marie?” Briley's eyes flash as she whirls around. “Where does she live? I'm no psychologist, but there's only one answer to this riddle—Lisa Marie lives inside your mind. Therefore,
your
hand reached for the
insulin bottle.
Your
fingers filled the syringe and injected your husband. Lisa Marie is not tangible. She's not able to confess to the court.
You
are the one the jury will see.
You're
the wife with a motive. And if we don't succeed in our defense, you're the one who'll go to prison or face the death penalty.
You
.”

Erin gulps hard, tears slipping down her cheeks. “But I didn't kill anyone. And if you won't believe me, I don't know how I'm going to convince a jury that I didn't do it. But I didn't.”

A melancholy frown flits across Briley's features. “It won't be enough to deny that you injected your husband. In the face of such strong evidence, we're going to have to show that someone else had opportunity, motive, and access. As long as Bystrowski is holding that damning syringe, you're asking me to do the impossible.”

Erin wipes her dripping nose with the back of her hand. “The prosecutor has to prove his case, right? Then let him prove it. But don't say I did it, because I didn't. If you tell them I injected Jeffrey, I might as well take that plea bargain the prosecutor offered. I might as well give up.”

“You can't give up. You deserve your day in court…and I'm going to see that you get it.”

Erin looks across the table and notices for the first time that shadows lie beneath Briley's eyes, dark, puffy circles. The woman has been losing sleep.

“Briley,” she whispers, dropping her head onto her outstretched arm, “I'm not a fool. I'm terrified by the thought of spending the rest of my life in jail. But I'm even more frightened by the thought of facing the Tomassis with Jeffrey's blood on my hands. I don't know how my fingerprints got on that syringe, but you have to believe me when I tell you that I'd kill myself before I'd kill Jeffrey. I know I'm innocent, and I know you can help the jury see the truth.”

The lawyer shakes her head, then crosses her arms and
leans back against the wall. “You're killing me. You're making this so much harder than it has to be.”

Erin lifts her head and peers out through bleary eyes. “How hard is it to tell the truth?”

“L
adies and gentlemen of the jury, as Judge Trask informed you, my name is Briley Lester and I'm representing Erin Tomassi, the defendant in this case.”

When someone raps on her office door, Briley stops rehearsing and glances at the clock—8:00 p.m., so everyone but the workaholic associates should be long gone.
She
should be long gone, but somehow it seemed important to remain in the office where she could focus on the upcoming trial.

“Come in?”

She nearly drops her note cards when Joseph Franklin opens the door and leans into her office. He gives her a casual smile. “A fax came in for you. I thought you might want to see it.”

Briley takes the document and scans it. The document is a letter opinion from Judge Trask. He's ruled on her motion to void the death penalty for Erin Tomassi's case, and he's ruled against her.

She groans. “I can't believe it.”

“You can't be surprised,” Franklin says. “Trask is a real law-and-order judge. I thought you knew that.”

She shakes her head. “I was hoping for better news.” Though she has prepared for this outcome, her workload has just tripled. Now that the death penalty is officially hanging over Erin's head, Briley will have so many more things to consider….

“You all set for Monday morning?” Franklin asks. “Anything I can do to help?”

Briley shakes her head, not trusting her voice. Why is he finally asking about her case? After working her ragged, remaining out of touch, and answering her questions through assistants and secretaries,
now
he wants to lend his support?

Franklin props a hand against the door frame. “How's our client holding up? Did you find her cooperative?”

“I found her stubborn.” Briley leans against the edge of her desk in an effort to appear relaxed. “I visited her this morning. She still insists she didn't kill her husband, but I'm afraid the evidence is going to bury us. I'm still trying to find a defense we can agree on.”

Franklin gives her an apologetic smile. “Don't let the tough ones break your spirit. I stopped by to tell you not to be crushed if this case doesn't go the way you'd like it to. As you know, the Tomassis have been clients of this firm a long time, so of course they turned to us in their hour of crisis. But Antonio wants justice. If the evidence points squarely to his daughter-in-law…” Franklin straightens and folds his arms, giving Briley an eloquent shrug. “I hope you hear me saying that you shouldn't be worried about your standing at this firm if your client is convicted. Do your best, of course, as I'm certain you will. But know that we won't think less of you if the jury doesn't come back with a manslaughter conviction.”

Briley nods, her mouth dry.

“All right, then.” He smiles and gives her a jaunty salute. “Break a leg Monday morning.”

Briley makes a face at her boss's retreating back as he closes the door. In the three years she's worked at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton, she has never heard a partner give an “It's okay to lose” speech to an associate. The lawyers of this firm are usually determined to win.

If Franklin considers a verdict of manslaughter unlikely, her chance for an acquittal must be virtually nonexistent.

 

Briley refuses to read the newspaper in the days just before the trial, knowing that William and Kate will tell her
about any important new developments in the case. She's seen far too many articles portraying Jeffrey Tomassi as a saint and Erin as a gold digger. She can only hope any potential jurors have avoided the papers, as well.

She intends to spend the weekend browsing through a garden catalog, but when she stands by her frozen flower beds, the images of lilacs, peonies, and hostas refuse to bloom in her imagination. She blows out a frosty breath, tucks the catalog under her arm, and hurries back into the warmth of the house, reminding herself that spring is only a few weeks away.

Feeling restless and irritable, she curls up on the sofa and clicks the television remote, but finds nothing of interest. She ought to be reveling in a few hours of personal time, but her thoughts keep drifting toward the coming trial. Though she feels well prepared, she could certainly rehearse her opening remarks and review her trial notebook. She has already made notes on every possible defense strategy, planning to choose one once she discerns Bystrowski's approach, but perhaps she has overlooked something important….

She starts when her cell phone rings. She frowns at the unfamiliar number, then answers. “Hello?”

“Ms. Lester?” The man's voice is vaguely familiar. “This is Floyd McKee. I'm so sorry to disturb you on a Saturday.”

She struggles to place the name. “Mr. McKee?”

“From Roger Wilson's group home. Listen, we tried to keep Roger away from the TV, but this morning a special report caught us by surprise. Mrs. Tomassi was on the news and Roger saw everything. He's been upset ever since, and since he can't call the jail, I thought maybe you could say something to comfort him.”

Briley presses her hand over her face. What does she know about comforting childlike men? And if Joseph Franklin is right about her chances of success next week, she ought to tell this man that his sister will be going away for a long time…maybe forever.

“Floyd, I don't think—” She stops when she realizes no one is on the line. She hears shuffling sounds, a soft murmur, then a thick voice. “Lo?”

“Is this Roger?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Briley, a friend of Erin's. Do you remember me? I helped you with your puzzle.”

Roger remains silent for a moment, then a torrent breaks forth. “I saw Erin on the TV and she was crying with her hands tied up with bracelets and the police were taking her away.” He is weeping now, the sound awful enough to break a heart of granite. “I don't want Erin to go away to jail. That's where bad people go, and Erin is not bad. Erin is good. She is kind and she brings me cookies and puzzles.”

When these words are followed by a loud clunk, Briley assumes he has dropped the phone…or thrown it.

She hears the muffled sound of tortured sobs, then Roger is back on the line. “Please, lady, will you help Erin? Don't let them put her in jail.”

She listens, tears welling in her eyes, until she regains control of her voice. “I'll try my best, Roger. I'll do what I can for your sister.”

“You promise? 'Cause it's not good to break a promise.”

“I promise. I do.”

“Mr. Floyd wants to talk to you.”

Briley inhales a deep breath as the older man comes on the phone. “Ms. Lester, I hate to bring this up, considering the circumstances, but I'm concerned about Roger's account.”

“His what?”

The man clears his throat. “A payment of twelve hundred dollars a month. We usually received it from Mrs. Tomassi's accountant, but we haven't recorded any payments for this calendar year. The account is now thirty-six hundred dollars overdue. I hate to say anything, considering the circumstances, but if we're not able to bring this account up to date—”

“Wait a minute—Your home is privately funded? I thought you were affiliated with a public agency.”

“We do receive some support from the community, but not much. Our residents are primarily supported by relatives or trustee accounts.”

Briley groans. All of Jeffrey's and Erin's accounts were frozen at the time of Jeffrey's death. They will remain frozen until the end of Erin's trial, and if she is sent to prison, the monies will go to the Tomassi family.

Briley doubts Antonio Tomassi will want to support Roger Wilson.

“What happens,” she asks, “if Roger's support is cut off?”

Floyd draws in a quick breath. “I—I guess he'll have to leave. Seems a shame, since this has been his home for years, but we have continual expenses and a waiting list. The medical bills alone…”

“I understand.”

After clicking off the phone, Briley sits in a melancholy fugue, feeling as though she has swallowed some lumpy object that keeps pressing against her breastbone.

What will happen to Roger if Erin is sent to prison? Without her financial support, he'll have to rely on the state—not the kindest or most accommodating provider. Though Floyd McKee is a nice man, he can't afford to run a charity. Roger has found a nurturing home, a place where he can watch
I Love Lucy
and enjoy Christmas lights in March. Wresting him from that home would be cruel.

Briley walks to the kitchen and stares into the refrigerator, but food will not assuage this pain. She needs to talk. She needs Timothy.

Without thinking, she dials his cell phone number. He answers on the second ring.

Thank goodness.

“Timothy.” She smiles from the sheer joy of saying his name.

“Bri?” Surprise rings in his voice. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing…I'm just sitting around the house. If you have some free time, I thought maybe we could get together this weekend—”

“I'm in L.A., Bri. Dax is filming a commercial out here.”

His answer is a stab in the heart.

“We've been in California a couple of weeks,” he continues, obviously unaware of her stunned response. “I'm not sure when filming will wrap up. They keep coming up with alternate ideas.”

Her face twists. “Okay, then. I'd better let you go—”

“What's wrong?”

Of course he'd realize she was upset. He knows her voice, knows the peaks and valleys of her moods. He doesn't have to see her to know that something is terribly, awfully wrong.

Her eyes clamp tight to trap a sudden flood of tears, but they overflow and spill over her lower lashes. For a moment she can't speak, then she throws dignity to the wind and tries to verbalize her feelings. “It's…this case. I really blew the pretrial hearing, and the judge ruled against my motion to take the death penalty off the table. The trial starts Monday and everyone expects me to lose. And Erin has this brother in a home for adults with Down syndrome. If she goes to prison, he'll have to leave. And I have no idea where he'll be able to go.”

She hiccups a sob, waiting to hear Timothy say that she shouldn't expect to win her first murder trial.

“You're going to do a great job,” he says instead.

She hiccups again. “What?”

“I believe in you, Bri. I've always believed in you, because you care about people. You care about your client.”

“But the evidence is stacked against us. And Erin hates the only credible defense I've been able to develop. She keeps saying she didn't do it.”

“Do you believe her?”

Briley swallows the next hiccup as she considers his question. Does she believe a woman who hears voices in her
dreams? She'd sooner believe in the tooth fairy, but maybe Timothy has a point. She hasn't accomplished anything by openly doubting Erin's story.

“If everyone in Chicago thinks Erin Tomassi killed her husband,” he continues, “she doesn't stand a chance. Everyone in Hollywood thought Dax would slip back into addiction, but you know what? He didn't…because someone believed in him.”

Briley draws a deep, trembling breath. “I want to believe her. But the evidence—”

“You're a preacher's kid,” Timothy says, a smile in his voice. “Don't you remember what faith is? It's believing in something when everyone around you doubts. It's believing in someone because you know they wouldn't lie to you.”

With a shiver of vivid recollection, the mention of her father carries Briley back to December 1994 and the awful months that followed. She stopped reading newspapers then, too, because every day brought new stories about her father's murder, his relationships, his involvement with addicts and ex-cons. Reporters broadcast the murderer's side of the story on television and in the papers, while no one listened to the brokenhearted girl who found herself all alone in the world.

Her blood soars with the unexpected memory. Years have passed, but the passion to make things right still flames within her breast. And this time, Erin Tomassi is her client. Like Briley's father, Erin tells the truth, even when the results are disastrous.

“Can you have faith in Erin Tomassi?” Timothy asks. “Because I have faith in you.”

“You know,” she whispers, closing her eyes, “I think I can.”